


Sick of the Silence

by orphan_account



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Drunk Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22575304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Over a year after the events of Rare Species, Geralt hears a familiar voice in a tavern.“I- I’m sorry, I- I don’t know . . .” Geralt’s voice trails out as Jaskier’s gaze remains on him, as unreadable as before.“Leave this town, Geralt,” Jaskier repeats, hurrying away and out the tavern doors before Geralt can even try for another disastrous attempt at speaking.The barkeep comes to where Geralt sits and throws his rag over his shoulder before leaning in. “Would you like something stiffer to drink?”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 30
Kudos: 491





	Sick of the Silence

“They all seem to look the same, don’t they Roach?” Geralt asks the mare as they break past the treeline and see the town past the fields of wheat and cow pastures. Roach huffs with a small bob of her head and he takes that as agreement as he slides out of the saddle. After the last job taking out a small group of rotfiends, Geralt had taken to the woods and set camp by a river. 

He enjoyed the solitude, hunting for what he needed and taking his time cleaning and sharpening his sword. He even bathed Roach, smoothing out her coat and brushing out her hair until it would shine in the sunlight. But solitude did not make for comfort. He would not be the first to complain about his bedroll and firepit, but while witchers were mutants, they were still humans. He longed for a hot bath and somewhere to clean his clothes that didn’t leave it smelling of river moss. 

Geralt makes his way down the main road, taking Roach by her lead. The town is up on a small hill and as he approaches the sounds and smells of the town filter into his senses. He hears the shuffle of horses in a stable and smells fires in hearths and the sounds of drunks wandering the streets. He makes his way to the town’s center to find somewhere to stay for the night and hopefully get himself a warm bath. 

He finds the inn and secures himself a room. He drops his pack and bedroll in the room but keeps his sword and armour strapped to himself, knowing too well how easily things can get out of hand. When he asks the innkeep for a recommendation for dinner, in the mood for something other than deer the man nods and points to their left,

“There’s a tavern just down the this eastern street. I hear there’s a show tonight as well,” the man tells him, sending off a younger boy to take Roach to a stable and feed her. Geralt nods his head and pays his fare for the night, requesting a hot bath be poured for him within the next hour and a half for his return. 

He walks down the eastern street as directed and hears a melody being plucked from a lute, light and like the barest brush of fingers over skin. 

_ Hush hush child _

_ The white wolf is near _

_ He swings his great sword _

_ So no monsters you hear _

_ Hush hush child _

_ The witcher is here _

_ He sweeps through the valleys _

_ For the nightmares you fear _

The song is new but the voice is one so familiar that Geralt could never forget. 

He’s standing in the middle of the street listening to the song while the world continued around him but a drunk man stumbling out of the tavern and directly into Geralt jerks him out of his thoughts. 

“Ayy, watch it,” the man slurs, doing his best to puff out his chest as he rounds back at Geralt. 

“Why don’t you,” Geralt growls. The man stumbles back, taking in Geralt’s white hair and broad shoulders nearly twice the size of the drunk’s, reeking of fear before he toters off into the night. Geralt rolls his eyes and looks back to the tavern. 

He remembers the last time he heard that voice, soft and hollow. He remembers hearing himself lash out and feel the way the words felt good in his mouth but the moment they hung in the air between them and Jaskier’s face fell, he felt the stirring of an emotion he thought he had forgotten - regret. So often he could rationalize his actions, killing the greater evil and doing a job and for survival. But that moment was none of those things. 

He walks away from the front doors, to a window pouring out golden light where the sound was loudest. He stuck to the shadows as he leaned over to look in. 

The tavern was simple, hand built tables with matching benches and a fire roaring in the fireplace. The bar was occupied by several patrons but the lionshare of people were seated in a far corner around a little makeshift stage. Over the heads of patrons Geralt could see the side swept dark hair. 

He turns away from the window and lets his shoulders sink back against the tavern wall and breathes. It had been nearly a year, months without the incessant noise of a companion. Days on end without inane questions or having to worry that someone else was in danger when he ran into a new monster along his travels. Nearly a year to slowly develop a resentment for the silence. 

He lifts from the wall and makes his way to the tavern doors, lifting his hood as he goes. He doesn’t open the doors wide or even very far, hoping to slide into the room without much disturbance, hoping he might not be seen. The patrons around the stage pay him no mind, but a few eyes meet his own from the bar.

“An ale,” Geralt requests when the barkeep makes his way over to where Geralt has come to sit, the furthest corner from where Jaskier stands on stage. He listens as the song comes to an end, slowly fading out as it grows softer and softer like a lullaby. 

“Any requests?” Jaskier asks. Geralt can hear him sip a glass of water as the crowd calls out various song titles. 

“The Golden Dragon!” Even over the din of the crowd, Geralt can hear the small stutter in the bard’s heart.

“Why not a classic, how about the Court of Calanthe?” Jaskier tries, a smile in his voice. But the crowd doesn’t listen, instead begins to chant “dragon, dragon, dragon”. Jaskier sighs, and Geralt risks turning his head to watch him put down his water glass and exchange it for his lute. 

“Alright, alright, settle down. I know how you all salivate for the White Wolf, keep it in your pants.” Jaskier settles back onto a stool and rolls his eyes as tunes his instrument for the new song. He clears his throat and strums -

The song is written like a fairytale, with an exposition and a rising plot. Geralt can almost listen to it as if he weren’t there, can let himself get lost in a faraway land and a band of travellers in search of something great. But what he can’t ignore is the closing verses. 

_ He is mighty and certainly strong _

_ For surely you have heard my victorious songs _

_ For he found the gold dragon  _

_ And he forged a great bond _

_ Where others would shed blood  _

_ And surely be gone _

_ He may be large and he may be fierce _

_ But don’t you send him away with a shouted curse _

_ The witcher may not be human _

_ But think of these stories before your rue him _

_ The witcher comes to save _

_ The witcher comes when he hears your cry _

_ So treat him well when he comes through your town  _

_ And raise your glasses high _

The crowd cheers, clapping and hoots for the triumphant conclusion. Geralt leans his elbows against the bar and drops his chin to his chest, even after everything Jaskier speaks so well of him. Geralt tries to choke down that horrible feeling twisting up in his gut but to no avail as he remembers the last words Jaskier spoke to him -

_ “What a day. I imagine-” _

_ “Damnit, Jaskier! Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s  _ you _ shovelling it?” _

_ “That’s not fair.” _

_ “The child surprise, the djinn, all of it. If life could give me one blessing it would be to take you off my hands.”  _

Geralt closes his eyes but the image of Jaskier’s crestfallen face greets him there and he knows there’s no escaping it. He hasn’t gone a day without seeing the resignation and hurt in those eyes. 

_ “Right, uh,” he hears the heavy swallow, can still smell the acridic scent of Jaskier’s pain high in his sinuses. “Right then,” a heavy swallow, “I’ll go get the story from the others.” The heavy beat of his heart was pounding almost as loud as the rushing sound of water in Geralt’s ears, the anger still coursing in his veins. But it was quickly replaced by that horrible sickness of regret.  _

_ “See you around, Geralt.” _

Now, sitting in a tavern with the man just a few yards away he felt it all come back to him like a tidal wave throwing him against a rocky shore. He remembers in the very beginning of his quests, freshly freed from the burden of company. He thought about Jaskier’s parting words and scoffed thinking of how the bard joined him simply to write better songs. Why should he fret over the man when all Geralt was to him was a business venture. 

But sitting here now, in this small tavern and hearing this song of the White Wolf and his triumphs Geralt knew he was only kidding himself. Jaskier saw him as a hero, a knight to ride through the forests defeating monsters and saving people. Or at least, that was how the bard used to see him, who knew what sour opinion he must have of Geralt now. 

“I don’t believe you ever heard that one before,” a voice startles him on his right. Geralt lifts his head and turns to find the very man next to him, waving down the barkeep. 

“I have not previously had the pleasure, no.” Geralt responds honestly, blinking at Jaskier as a pint is placed in front of him with a sack of coins that is likely his payment for tonight’s performance. Jaskier does not return Geralt gaze and the witcher can’t help but worry that he may never get to look Jaskier in the eye again. 

“The pleasure? High praise from the White Wolf,” Jaskier’s eyebrows lift, sipping his ale but eyes still fixed on the shelves along the wall behind the bar. The bottles of liquor and clean mugs must be far more interesting than Geralt. 

“I have liked all your songs, Jaskier,” Geralt admits, softly. He looks back down to his own ale and after a moment feels Jaskier’s eyes on him. He doesn’t look back to him, worried the bard might turn away. 

“Was I supposed to assume as much? Between the grunts and growls?” Jaskier scoffs after a moment, sounding a little awed but Geralt could smell the steely edge of his anger. “I was a nuisance to you,” Jaskier snaps, setting his eyes forward once more, taking a long pull from his drink. 

“No, I-”

Jaskier sighs and puts up a hand, and Geralt can’t even contemplate not acquiescing to the demand for silence. It may be a first for him. He watches the man beside him chug that last of his drink and smack the glass back down. When Jaskier finally makes eye contact, Geralt almost regrets having wished for it because the bard’s eyes are not bright with mirth or mischief. They are hollow, giving away nothing and though Geralt can scent the mellowed out rotting scent of past hurt he can find nothing more. 

“Now, it was you who wished for my blessed removal but seeing as I was here first, I think you should take your leave of this town by morning, yes?” One eyebrow raised pointedly, eyes as dull as ever. When he gets no response, the bard simply rolls his eyes and drops from the stool to his feet, readjusting the lute strapped across his chest to hang on his back. 

Geralt doesn’t think - he seems to be doing that a lot recently - before his hand flies out and wraps around the man’s upper arm. He’s surprised by how gentle the grip is despite how desperate the grab had felt. 

Jaskier jolts, scent spiking with surprise and a touch of fear that makes Geralt snatch his hand back as if he had been burned. Jaskier turns his head to look back over his shoulder at the witcher, eyebrows furrowed but eyes wide. 

“I- I’m sorry, I- I don’t know . . .” Geralt’s voice trails out as Jaskier’s gaze remains on him, as unreadable as before. 

“Leave this town, Geralt,” Jaskier repeats, hurrying away and out the tavern doors before Geralt can even try for another disastrous attempt at speaking. 

The barkeep comes to where Geralt sits and throws his rag over his shoulder before leaning in. “Would you like something stiffer to drink?”

***

Geralt isn’t sure how much he drank that night, but it had to be quite a bit considering how he swayed when he walked. It took a lot to get a witcher drunk, considering how slow their hearts beat and the tolerance that came with being a large man. But, as he walked through the streets of the town, he had to be careful and watch his footing lest he fall flat on his face. 

He made his way slowly to his inn, taking a bit of a scenic route since he turned left out of the tavern rather than right and having to reorient himself while intoxicated. 

As he made his way inside, the innkeeper waved him down to the desk. 

“I wish to apologize sir, I had my boy keep an eye out for you in the stables for when you would return so the bath could be ready, but he did not see you before he turned in for the night. I will start your bath now, it will be ready within the hour.”

Geralt was tempted to wave him off, wanting nothing more than to simply sleep away the troubles of this evening. But he had been craving a warm bath for so long that he couldn’t say no. 

“If I am asleep, wake me when you are done,” Geralt requests, words slurring together but understandable enough that the innkeeper nods and hurries off presumably to start heating water. 

Geralt makes his way up the inn stairs and towards his room, wanting to strip off his armour and lay down as a headache begins to form in the very front of his mind. 

But all of that is lost to murmuring thought when he scents it in the air. Apples and ale, rosin and ink. Jaskier is nearby. 

He loses himself a bit as he slips past his own room and further down the corridor, intent on finding him. He needs to find him, he needs to speak to him and, and - he doesn’t even know but he has to. He stumbles a bit in his haste but eventually finds a door towards the very end of the hall that practically radiates the smell of the bard. He stands there for only a moment to drunkenly contemplate what he’s doing, but his hand reaches out on more of an instinct and knocks. 

“I did not request- oh.” The door swings open and with it comes a heady hit of that scent that practically smacks Geralt in the face. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispers, listing to one side and feeling as though the floor rolls like a boat on an uneven sea. 

“Good lord, are you drunk?” Jaskier huffs, scrutinizing the witcher in front of him. He must see the flushed cheeks and glazed eyes, and the unsteady way he shuffles his feet. “You are a disgrace of a man, Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier spits, but the venom in his voice is belittled by the way he reaches out and wraps his hand around the man’s forearm. 

“Jaskier, I-”

“No, you shut up. I do not want to hear a single word from you. Should be easy, right? You never speak unless you’re shouting at me,” Jaskier snaps, stepping out of his room, latching the door behind him. Geralt feels his heart twinge, mouth open to protest but quickly snaps his jaw closed with Jaskier’s glare. 

“Well, where is your room then?” Geralt blinks owlishly at the other man, not understanding in the slightest. “I can’t just leave you out in the hallway, you big oaf. Where is your room so I can get rid of you?”

Geralt points back down the hallway and follows behind as Jaskier huffs and yanks him in that direction by his arm. Even while drunk Geralt could easily remove himself from Jaskier’s grip but he doesn’t want to, finds that the bard’s warm and lute calloused hands are incredibly nice on his skin. 

Geralt grunts when they finally reach his door, pointing to it hoping that Jaskier will understand him without words. He didn’t want to earn himself another glare. 

“Alright, in you go. Go lay down for a good night’s sleep and leave this town and me the fuck alone,” Jaskier growls by the end, tugging open the door after unlocking it with the key Geralt hands him. Jaskier steps aside and waves Geralt in but the witcher just stands and stares at the man before him. 

“But, Jaskier, I-”

“I’m sorry, am I interrupting?” Both men turn to find the innkeeper, with a bucket of steaming water in his hands. “This is the last of your bath, sir.”

“So, you want to actually drown yourself on top of all the liquor?” Jaskier asks, his laugh bitter. “I didn’t know I was so special, Geralt.”

“Uh-”

“Bring it in, I’ll be sure you don’t find a dead body tomorrow,” Jaskier tells the innkeeper, waving the man into the room before tugging Geralt in asl well. 

“Thank you, Jas-”

“At least he won’t be dead by drowning,” Jaskier cuts in with a sharp look that has Geralt dropping his gaze to the floor. He has no real reason to fear the bard, he could easily stop any attack from the slighter man but he did feel like a scolded and unwanted child as the innkeeper silently filled the rest of the bath and left the room. 

Geralt stands in the middle of the room while Jaskier moves around doing this and that, things Geralt doesn’t bother paying any attention to. What he does focus on was the way Jaskier’s apple-ale-rosin-ink smell fills the room and swirls around him. He watches Jaskier’s hands grip bags of smelling salts and pours half a handful in large arcs, his long fingers delicately gripping vials of various oils and dripping it slowly over the water. 

He places the salts and oils aside before turning to Geralt who hasn’t moved an inch. 

“Completely useless,” he mutters under his breath, stalking forward and immediately grabbing for Geralt armour. Geralt twitches when fingers brush against his side, yanking at a buckle and pulling through the strap, and wonders if he has ever been taken apart like this. Not just physically, because plenty of prostitutes in random brothels across the continent have helped him undress but has someone ever literally and figuratively stripped him so bare?

Jaskier pulls the chest plate off of him with a yanking motion that seems more spiteful than helpful but Geralt takes it in stride. Or at least with a stumble as his drunken world is tilted off axis. 

“Are you as inept at dressing as you are in socializing or can you take the rest off yourself?” Jaskier asks, throwing the chest plate on to a chair in the corner of the room without a backwards glance. Geralt should be upset at the poor treatment of one of his most valuable possessions but he can’t find it in himself to care. 

“I believe I can do it myself,” Geralt says, looking down to watch his hands fumble with the lacing of his pants. The strings have never been so tricky before and he huffs in frustration before giving up and instead trying to remove his shirt. He grips the bottom hem and pulls up, stretching his arms over his head and only just aware enough to catch the sound of Jaskier’s small gasp. 

He nearly rips the shirt in half in his haste to see the man but finds, when the fabric finally releases him, that Jaskier has turned his attention back to the bath. He’s stirring the water with a single minded focus and Geralt is sure he’s never been jealous of bath water before. 

“Pants, too,” Jaskier says, just as Geralts goes to step towards the bath. The pants take significantly longer, the laces still tangling in his unsteady fingers, but Jaskier seems impossibly patient at the moment. 

“I’m done,” Geralt announces, unsure of how to proceed. This night with Jaskier feels like walking across an old battleground, waiting for the rotfiend to pop up out of anywhere. 

“Good, now get in, the water is getting cold,” Jaskier directs curtly, keeping his back to the witcher as he crosses the room to the bath. He’s unsteady on his feet still but the liquor might be fading soon enough, even so the process of getting into the tub is a tough one. He slips for a moment, the bottom of the tub more slick than he anticipated, and he hears a shuffle behind him. Jaskier doesn’t touch him, not even a barely there brush, but Geralt can feel the warmth and presence of a hand just beyond the bare skin of his lower back. 

He eventually gets both feet into the tub and slowly lowers himself into the water, still warm but not hot. Jaskier puts a pitcher of water on a small side table next to the bath with a glass, filling it before politely handing it to Geralt. He watches the witcher consume the whole glass before walking away. 

“Here,” A small rag smacks against his shoulder, already sudsy, “wash up. I’ll come back with some clean clothes.” Before Geralt could protest, the door clicks shut as Jaskier leaves. 

Geralt rubs at his skin, slough off days of dirt and sweat and a bit of blood from his last hunt. The rag smells of chamomile and cedar, a combination both delicate and steady that eased his mind a little. He pours more water and sips at it in between washing different parts of his body. He barely startles when the door pushes open behind him. 

“Are you finished?” Jaskier asks, moving into the room with a bundle of clothes, “The innkeeper has a son about your size, a lumberjack in the north, said you could have some of his old clothes.” Jaskier places the bundle on the bed before moving across the room to sit in an old, weathered looking armchair. 

“I’m done,” Geralt answers, nodding his head but stopping when the room swims before his eyes. 

“Alright then, get on with it,” Jaskier waves a hand in a ‘hurry up’ gesture, still sitting in his armchair. 

“Am I no longer being assisted?” Geralt asks, carefully standing with the help of a table next to the tub for him to lean on. The alcohol feels significantly less concentrated in his system after soaking in the aromas of the bath and drinking more water from the pitcher. 

“No, I figure your dignity might not handle having to be dressed like a child,” Jaskier snips, eyes still on Geralt even before he manages to wrap a towel around his waist.

“Hmph.” Geralt makes his way to the bed and unfolds the clothes he’s been given. There is a pair of soft trousers that may even fall to his ankles and a well worn linen shirt that looks like it has stretched over a pair of wide shoulders for years. 

He glances over at Jaskier and finds an unwavering and unapologetic gaze tracking his every movement. He places a hand over the knot holding the towel at his hips and raises his eyebrows, but Jaskier simply sits further back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. Geralt just shrugs and drops the towel before grabbing for the pants and slipping them on, thankfully much looser than his usual attire and therefore much easier to put on. 

The shirt comes with its own problems, namely that he forgets to untie the laces in the chest and finds it difficult to pull over his head. He hears Jaskier huff from his chair before footsteps pad over to stand in front of him. 

“How have you gotten on without me?” He sighs, with something almost tender in his voice. It’s utterly jolting after an evening of sniping and harsh insults. 

“Not very well,” Geralt admits as the shirt is finally tugged over his head and Jaskier is revealed in front of him. “It’s been unnervingly quiet without you and your terrible songs,” Geralt teases with a small smile. 

Jaskier narrows his eyes, flicking between Geralt’s like he’s looking for something very specific and he knows it will be difficult to find. The bard’s hands have not quite fallen to his sides and Geralt barely thinks before taking them in his own, he can blame the liquor if this ends badly. Jaskier doesn’t pull away like a small voice in his head had previously predicted so the witcher takes it as a win. 

“I can’t possibly begin to understand you, can I?” Jaskier asks, still looking over his face like it holds answers if only the bard could decipher them. 

“What do you mean? I have never tried to deceive you,” Geralt protests, eyebrows furrowing together. 

“First you wish for silence and now you say you miss my songs. You demand that fate bless you with my leave and now you come stumbling through a tavern, more liquor than man, and seek out my company. How am I ever supposed to believe what comes out of your mouth?” Jaskier asks, eyes wide and lips turned down in a frown. 

There’s a scar, quite small and half hidden by the dark waves of his hair, but it looks like it might have been a nasty cut when it happened. Geralt wonders what happened, what other hurts he wasn’t present for and couldn’t protect Jaskier from. He doesn’t remember making the decision to but suddenly his thumb is passing over he marred skin gently. 

“Geralt.”

“I’m so sorry, Jaskier,” Geralt finally says, having felt the words lodge themselves in his throat from the moment he heard the bard singing in from outside the tavern, it’s a relief to release them now. “I have been a terrible friend.”

Jaskier places his now free hand on Geralt’s chest and looks at it for a moment, likely feeling the slow beat of Geralt’s heart under the skin and bone. 

“Are you my friend?” Jaskier asks, so quietly Geralt has to strain his enhanced ears to hear it. Geralt would blame the alcohol, despite it consistently leaving his blood for some time now, for the warmth gathering in his cheeks.

“I will take whatever you give me, Jaskier, even if it is your leave but I must ask,” take a deep breath but don’t close your eyes, “may I be more?”

Jaskier looks up from his hand on Geralt’s chest and meets the witcher’s eyes. “I don’t know if I can let you have that, Geralt. I just don’t know.” Geralt nods, moving his gaze to fix out the bedroom window over Jaskier’s shoulder. “No, no, no, look at me,” Jaskier tsks, lifting his hand to turn Geralt’s chin to look at him once more, Geralt’s eyes following with a moment’s hesitation. “Not tonight, but not never.”

“I have a chance to win your favor back?” Geralt asks, having to confirm it for his own sake. He’s never really thought of this, have never dared to even let himself hope, so he doesn’t know how to proceed or even believe what may be transpiring. 

“I’m still horribly mad at you,” Jaskier tells him, mouth tightening in displeasure, “You’re lucky I didn’t punch you when I found you at my door.”

“You knuckles are lucky, you would have broken them,” Geralt informs him, earning him a smack to the side of the head.

“Not the point.” Geralt grunts but admits to himself he deserved that. “You pushed me away, more like you gutted me really, a true destruction of my heart. Really, you couldn’t have been more cruel if you tried, and I was heartbroken for days until this lovely old woman took me in. I mean she did try to marry me off to her daughter, a pretty thing but nothing like the ruggedly handsome man who tore me in two and-”

“Jaskier,” Geralt rumbled, thumb dropping from the scar to brush over the bard’s cheekbone and further down to caress his jaw. 

“Alright, well, to put it simply - I was hurt. You deliberately hurt me,” Jaskier explains in a soft voice, eyes down cast. “And I have missed you, I will freely admit, but that does not mean I can simply accept that you’re back and go on as if it never occurred.” 

“I understand,” Geralt hums, and he does, he would spend a lifetime trying to fix it now. 

“So, if I tell you I will be returning to my room tonight, you won’t leave in the early morning without me?” Jaskier asks, eyes coming back up. 

“Of course not, you are never awake before at least midmorning if not the afternoon if I let you sleep,” Geralt scoffs, pressing his palm against Jaskier face and rewarded with the bard pressing close as well with a small chuckle. 

“Good nigh-” Jaskier pulls away with a smile, trying to make his leave but Geralt can’t let him go quite yet. Instead, he moves his hand from where he had held Jaskier’s and instead wraps it around the bard’s waist to tug him closer. 

Kissing Jaskier is as easy as breathing. Simply moving in close and catching the bard’s lips, even when they are already in motion. Jaskier is motionless at first, not resisting the way his plush bottom lip is caught between Geralt’s but he freezes. Geralt doesn’t pull away but waits, waits with bated breath as Jaskier’s shoulders eventually relax and a slow breath pours out of his nose, his head tilting to the side for a better angle. 

It’s slow, nothing much more than dry lips pressing together and moving against each other. It’s electrifying. Geralt has to hold back the urge to press further, to shove his tongue in the bard’s mouth and  _ claim _ . But rushing this would feel wrong, would make everything that’s happened feel cheap. There’s no need to rush when they have all the time in the world.

Jaskier pulls back first with a heavy swallow, eyes fluttering open slowly. 

“Good night, Geralt,” he whispers, a pleased smile slowly stretching across his kiss swollen lips. 

“Sleep well, Jaskier.”

The bard steps back with one foot, eyes bright and trained on Geralt. When Geralt smiles back and takes his own single step back Jaskier laughs, a sound more melodic than any song could hope to be, before turning on his heel and leaving the room. 


End file.
